


One More Miracle

by TheSignOfJohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Continuation, Depression, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Fanfiction fix, Fanfiction of a Fanfiction, Fix-It, Freeform, Graphic Description, Johnlock - Freeform, Kinda, M/M, Solider!John, barely, broken!sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:39:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSignOfJohnlock/pseuds/TheSignOfJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, I read this fic http://archiveofourown.org/works/667956 by trajektoria and it hurt me, it was tagged "Choose your own ending, so I had to continue it. Not sure how this will turn out, but I need these two idiots to be happy, so this is happening.</p><p>Two important notes:<br/>First, if you haven't read Emails From the War Zone by Trajektoria (Link above) then you wont know what's happening here, you should read it anyway, it's short and it will make you feel things.</p><p>Second, the perspectives will shift as needed, but only between scenes, I am going to try to make it obvious as they change, but if you need more clarity, let me know.</p><p>**EDIT**<br/>I have a beta reader now Ao3 user, Megabat! So many thanks to her for helping me clean up a bit around here. All mistakes are still mine though :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trajektoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Emails from the War Zone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/667956) by [trajektoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria). 



###  ******Previously on This Story's Original Ending****(THE ENDING OF EMAILS FROM THE WAR ZONE)**

**To: consulting_detective@hotmail.co.uk  
Subject: Captain John Watson**

Dear Sir,

I regret to inform you that Captain John Watson has been presumed Missing in Action during the heavy bombing of a hospital in __________ where he worked as a doctor. His bravery and devotion will not be forgotten. I offer my deepest condolences. Major Henry Harrington

**To: john_watson@gmail.com  
Subject: …**

You selfless, selfish bastard! How could you've done this to me? Always a damn hero! You stayed with your patients to the bitter end, throwing your life away, right? You chose them over me. This is unfair. You told me you had feelings for me, that you loved me. What am I supposed to do now? You gave me hope, you've made me happy and now it's all gone. You're gone. How can I go on without you? You were my heart, John.

Mycroft's men are following me everywhere, making sure that I won't 'do anything stupid'. This is pointless, I could have shaken them off without much effort if I only wanted. Is this the only way, John? Is suicide the only way to see you again?

I'm still considering my options.  
Forever yours,  
Sherlock

 

**To: john_watson@gmail.com  
Subject: …**

See you soon, John.  
Love,  
Sherlock

\-------

### Begin my story

Watching from the camera's across the street was no longer sufficient for Mycroft, he could tell that his baby brother was going to do something monumentally stupid; what idiot had sent him that email!? He makes a note to find out later as he rushes out of his office and into a car waiting on the street, 

"Drive as if your life depends on it!" he snaps at the driver as he slams his door closed, phone in his other hand already dialing his brother's number. The call goes immediately to voicemail and Mycroft grits his teeth and hangs up. 

Arriving at 221 Baker Street in record time Mycroft leaps from his seat and all but rips the door from its hinges and flies up the stairs to the flat. What he sees inside shocks him to the core, his baby brother, his top priority, with a needle filled with some new garish blue liquid, likely of his own design, poised to inject it into his exposed outstretched arm. Mycroft's vision blurs at the edges, beyond thought, he finds himself launching himself across the room at Sherlock, his tall lean body crashing into his brother's similar frame taking them both to the ground somehow managing to hold Sherlock's hand and more importantly, the needle, away from the collision. It takes all the strength he has in him to pin Sherlock to the ground, he finds himself regretting his avoidance of 'legwork' lately, but thankfully, Sherlock is clearly so angry at Mycroft for interrupting him, that he cannot see straight, he tries fruitlessly to thrash and yank from his brother's grasp, but in his desperation and Mycroft's determination, he finds that his efforts are futile. Sherlock begins to yell at his brother, 

"Can't you see?!" he stared into Mycroft's eyes pleading, "I love him so damn much and he is dead! This is the only way!" Mycroft could feel the flood gates break at Sherlock's words. Mycroft watched as the pain of his restrained emotions poured from his mouth, and released everything that he'd been withholding from the world. The irony of being the one here listening to the heartfelt flood of emotions, instead of his brother’s intended recipient, was not lost on Mycroft as he watched the anger and misery fill his brother’s eyes as the truth kept spilling from his lips."I can't do this without him! I didn't know I needed him so badly! Life before his presence was dull and gray and I am just supposed to go back to that?! No, I can't do it Mycroft, I won’t! No one and nothing will ever come close to how he made me feel!" 

Mycroft carefully removed the needle from Sherlock's tightly gripped fingers and cast it toward the kitchen, the sound of the glass hitting the tile floor and smashing satisfies Mycroft's senses like no other sound had before and suddenly he could breathe again, he let his brother’s brother's words sink in. He knew this sentiment farce would be trouble and while he never thought this would be such an issue for Sherlock, he won’t allow it to be what ends him. 

Now that the adrenaline has ceased its blaze through his veins, Mycroft's hold on his brother slackens, and Sherlock notices it immediately, recovering from the shock, his struggle starting anew forcing Mycroft to roll to his side, the threat of immediate danger out of the way. Once free of Mycroft's weight, Sherlock sits up, his back against the couch and he's CRYING, tears pouring from his bright blue eyes, sobs wracking his body. Completely at a loss for what to do, Mycroft reaches out a hand and attempts to comfort his baby brother, taking his hand as gently as possible, only to have that effort violently rejected as Sherlock yanks his hand back to himself, 

"LEAVE, Mycroft! Leave me alone! I don't need you or want you here!" he yells through a scratchy throat. Mycroft silently ignores the commands, knowing his brother needs a lot more than he thinks. Pulling himself to his feet, Mycroft takes out his phone again, calling the second number in his priority list, a young woman answers, 

"Anthea, send ten of the best to Baker Street, I want this house searched from top to bottom and everything that could possibly be lethal removed, and have my essentials sent as well, I am to be staying with my brother until further notice," He looks at Sherlock, weak and broken, the man still manages an eye roll and an attempt to argue; with steal in his eyes Mycroft snapped at him “NO! You are in no state to argue with me!" Sherlock must have been worse than he thought, because he just closed his eyes, and turned his head. 

After three hours of tearing the flat apart the team found a lot of surprising things. There were body parts, both animal and human and things that had decayed or had been burned to the point of being unidentifiable, but that was nothing compared to the drugs. Mycroft held off a gasp as the man searching the bathroom removed the mirror from the wall, behind it was a carved out space containing a small treasure trove of all the things he had thought were part of Sherlock's dark past, bags of white powder practically falling into the sink below and medical grade supplies for injecting them. Mycroft needed to take a moment to compose himself, then he turned to the agent who found the stash and instructed him to remove the it from this house immediately, "And make it known," he continued sharply, "if I find anyone selling to him again, they will be dealt with" the man nods and gets straight to his task. 

\------------------

**To: john_watson@gmail.com  
Subject: Come back to me**

John,

Living with my brother these last two months has been exactly as dreadful as I imagined it would be, I can't take a step in the direction of the bathroom without his beady eyes at my back, as if I was planning to somehow use the shower curtain to bring about my demise. To be honest however, I am thankful that he stopped me from ending my life that day, as I am not entirely convinced that you are gone. First off, Henry Harrington? What is this one of your silly comic books? It’s not likely for someone who hasn’t been bitten by a radioactive insect to have such a ridiculous name. This is the part where you would scoff and say something like, "This coming from a man named Sherlock" and I smile and then tell you that the army wouldn't hack into your email and send random people from your inbox a message stating that you're missing in action, you would then call me brilliant and together we would solve the case. 

But you're not here right now and I had to think it through alone, it's painful John, being clever without you. It's like a knife going through my chest to not hear your voice when I think out loud, always there to keep me going. I can't see how I did it before you, how I could possibly deduce anything before I saw the light it brought to your eyes, and I need that again, I need your light, John. Please come back to me, please stop being dead. 

-Sherlock

After pressing send Sherlock sets the laptop on the table in front of him and lays his head down to face it. In pajamas and a blue bathrobe, he stretches out on the couch, holding his phone to his ear and his eyes on his inbox, he continues to wait. 

At this point he is barely aware of Mycroft’s ever looming presence in the grey leather chair, always that chair. No one sat in John’s chair anymore, not after Lestrade came by to see why Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone. Lestrade walked in the door to see Sherlock sulking across the couch, where he’d stayed almost constantly for two weeks, gaze fixed on the laptop screen, with no interest in explaining himself to the detective inspector. 

“He won’t speak to anyone at this point” Sherlock heard Mycroft explain from the kitchen, where he was likely making more god awful tea that Sherlock wouldn’t drink. Lestrade tried to get his attention, “Sherlock?” Sherlock pointedly ignored him hoping he’d just leave; having Mycroft around was hard enough, but two people who think he can’t care for himself? Absurd. Lestrade would get frustrated with the silence and leave as he had in the past. That’s what Sherlock thought until out of the corner of his eye he saw Lestrade lowering himself into the arm chair in front of him, silence was no longer his game plan, 

“OUT!” His voice echoed through the entire flat, “That is NOT your chair and I am not your problem, LEAVE, NOW!” Shock crossed Lestrade’s expression as he stood up and began his retreat, Mycroft appeared at the entrance to the living room looking alarmed and tired, he looked at Lestrade with a “We’ll talk later” face that Sherlock just hated and Lestrade left quietly. And since then, the chair had been mostly abandoned, the only exception being Sherlock himself. 

The memory of that evening in mind, Sherlock slid down off of the couch and up on to the arm chair, it was worn and on the old-ish side, but it was sturdy and comfortable, in those and many other ways, it was like John himself and to Sherlock, meant that it needed to be protected. On the few occasions where Sherlock found himself curled up in the seat, he was always surprised to find that it still smelled like the man, earl grey tea, soft unobtrusive cologne and something that was just distinctly John, it was the most peaceful place to be in the entire world for him now. But it wouldn’t last much longer. Each time he used John’s chair to feel somehow closer to him, it smelled less and less of John, Sherlock’s own body and scent contaminated it, soon it would just be Sherlock, alone, again. 

For now however, the chair still faintly held John’s essence and Sherlock could almost feel John’s arms wrapping around him and telling him to think, to remember how determined he had always been, how something as frivolous as death would not get in the way of true love (the thought occurred to Sherlock that might have been from some movie John tried to get Sherlock to watch). Either way, he lies there in the chair for hours, all the while pondering the possibility of John's continued existence. 

After a quick search on the internet, Sherlock had indeed found out that the military’s process of notifying loved ones does not include accessing their email accounts, but that doesn’t eliminate the possibility that one of John’s army friends had seen that he left open his email and decided to put Sherlock out of his misery. 

In any case Sherlock is stuck on one word, “Missing” which is not synonymous with dead, it instead means lost and he knows that without a doubt, if John is indeed out there and alive, he is doing his best to come back, and Sherlock pities anyone who would stand in the way of a determined John Watson. So he builds himself up with careful hope. 


End file.
